Poem: Sound

Sound

The first double-stop arrests my heart.
A flutter, a glissando, a prickling of hairs
when he puts that violin to his chin,
the grain of the wood worn down
like an old man's face.
I expect a doddering,
an Alzheimer's cry to come from
that fragile instrument
but instead he belts out Bach's Chaconne
Partita No. 2 in D minor.
D minor! Who could have said
listening to the lilting waves, the rich belly
that cracks open wallets
and stone hearts?
He moves across the stage,
his arms, torso, head and neck fiercely
defending the melody.
Bullets of sweat fall from his face
barely missing the fingerboard,
the scroll of the violin
dancing in arcs and furies
the bow in pirouettes and plies
the audience held
by golden fetters, diamond shackles.